


Promise Day

by wings128



Series: Pick A Number [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Crossover Pairings, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/pseuds/wings128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been forty seven mornings since John...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenic/gifts).



> Written for selenic76's prompt in the Secret Character Meme:  
>  _When 7 and 11 go for a night out, (willingly or reluctantly?) what do they do or where do they go?_
> 
> NOTE: there is mention of a main character's death, but it doesn't happen within the fic itself.

The place was packed, made sense since it was the only place that sold liquor after nine in the small town they’d chosen to call home. Ronon had thought he’d go crazy inside of a week; muscle memory screaming for an adrenalin hit, that came only from killing Wraith and running with John for the open gate – the way home. Turned out, learning to surf, downing chilled beer on their porch in the setting of Earth’s only sun, and holding John close in a tangle of long limbs and warm breath; was all his body truly craved.

It had taken a month of urging from McKay and Keller – they would never be Rodney and Jennifer – for him to set foot outside their land, their home. His heart, his soul, in too much agony to convince his body into movement. 

Everything had remained just as John had left it. The trainers with sand and black loam in their tread still sat right in the doorway where John always left them, where Ronon always stepped over them to enter. The black tee, tossed thoughtlessly on the armchair in the corner of their bedroom had smelled of his lover every time Ronon had cradled it, face buried in soft cotton, senses driving home the finality of his loss. There could be no daring rescue, nothing for him to throw his weight against to bring John home. The Milky Way was no different than Pegasus; things still hunted you, only here it was called _Malignancy of Unspecified Origin_ – not Wraith.

Ronon sat on the cracked leather of the last bar stool, had been sitting there for…it didn’t matter…focused on the condensation sliding slick down the outside of his warming drink; ice thinning the bourbon’s ability to medicate. 

“Buy you another?” Ronon heard the offer, but hoped the guy would take his silence as answer enough. “Nothin’ worse than warm Jack.”

Ronon turned his head, still unused to the absent weight his dreads had carried; he’d shaved them loose and placed them with John, would’ve burned them both, had they been on Sateda. But they weren’t on Sateda, Sateda was dead, John was… and Ronon was stuck on a planet where no one knew the true link between his bare head and the platinum band on his finger.

There was new pain, sharp and glassy in this one’s green eyes. His shoulders hunched inside oversized brown leather, long legs in blue denim, booted feet hooked on the brass railing, and Ronon knew without asking, without being told. 

“When?” Ronon rumbled as a fresh glass on a fresh card with fresh ice slid into his vision and the space between where his forearms rested on lacquered wood; its level twice that of the original.

“Eighteen hours, thirty four minutes.” The guy croaked, chased his words with bourbon and gasped with the heat before signalling the barkeep for another. “You?”

Ronon was unused to Earth’s calendar, never had need of it once they’d settled here, but he knew how many mornings he’d awoken alone; would always know. “Forty seven mornings.”

“Dean,” the guy said, swigged back his second, reached for his third. 

“Ronon,” Ronon answered and signaled four for the next round.

“Our promise day,” Ronon murmured on a swallow and caught Dean’s eyes flitting to his ring as Ronon clinked his glass to the full one before him. “Five years.”

“To…?” 

“John.”

“John.” Dean saluted and flung back the triple like water.

Ronon was quietly surprised that Dean didn’t offer a reaction at the name, at its maleness. He and John had caused a stir when they had settled in this sleepy seaside town; locals uncertain and cautious at first.

“Got somewhere to be?” Dean asked, turning his body toward Ronon as he slid another glass his way.

Ronon’s chest tightened with the crushing loneliness that was to be his only companion, “no.”


End file.
